


The Photo Catches Them Just as the Light Does

by earlybloomingparentheses



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Author has opinions about American history, Complicated body issues, Developing Relationship, M/M, Masculinity, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Power Play, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Press and Tabloids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 02:41:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7248796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s a beautiful photo, objectively speaking, much more beautiful than a shitty Internet tabloid photographer ought to have managed. Sam sees it when three friends and his sister text him the link simultaneously, the morning after, just minutes after Sam’s woken up. Steve is lying beside him, looking perfect and peaceful after a rare full night’s sleep, and Sam is overcome with desperate anger, because they’ve ruined this, they’ve ruined the first really good moment he and Steve have had in a long time.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Photo Catches Them Just as the Light Does

The thing that makes Sam angriest is that it had been a really good moment.

The photo catches them just as the light does: a sunbeam from the open window falling across their gleaming, sweaty bodies, illuminating Sam’s hand as it pushes down on the back of Steve’s golden head, shining on Steve’s crumpled faced pressed half into the pillow. The afternoon glow highlights the red scratches on Steve’s skin where Sam had just raked his fingernails down Steve’s side. It throws the lower halves of their bodies into shadow, draping their naked backsides like the bedsheets drape their bare legs. The shadows cling lovingly to the place where Sam disappears inside Steve, but it’s obvious what’s happening; obvious, too, how much Sam is in control. Obvious that Sam is taking Steve tenderly, ruthlessly, and that Steve wants him to. It’s a beautiful photo, objectively speaking, much more beautiful than a shitty Internet tabloid photographer ought to have managed.

Sam sees the photo when three friends and his sister text him the link simultaneously, the morning after, just minutes after Sam’s woken up. Steve is lying beside him, looking fucking perfect and _peaceful_ after a rare full night’s sleep, and Sam is overcome with desperate anger, because they’ve ruined this, they’ve ruined the first really good moment he and Steve have had in a long time.

Sam’s worked with a lot of traumatized soldiers, and he’s a traumatized soldier himself, but Steve is in his own category. Not that Steve would admit he’s had it worse than anyone else. And if it had just been losing Bucky, well, Sam’s lost a best friend in combat as well. But waking up in the next century, then discovering your dead best friend is alive but brainwashed and violent and on the run—that brings on a new level of fucked up. (Not that Sam would ever use that term at the V.A. But in his own mind, he likes to call it like it is. And Steve Rogers is fucked up).

It’s not that Steve doesn’t trust Sam, but Steve doesn’t trust the _universe_ not to take things away from him, so it’s taken a long time for them to get on the same page. One careful two-bed motel room to the next, all across America, they inched closer and closer together with agonizing slowness. Sam had his reasons for holding back, too; Steve’s the first man since Riley he’s even wanted to get that close to, and Steve’s ability to let Sam in as they look for Bucky has been—rough. It’s all been rough.

So what it’s taken for them to get to that single bed in a Kansas motel with the sun shining through the open windows, the air cool on their skin, Steve gasping and writhing beneath Sam’s lovingly merciless hands, well.

Overwhelming anger isn’t Sam’s usual mode of response to bad situations, not like it is for Steve—he’s seen the man destroy his share of punching bags—but this makes him _burn_. He feels like throwing his phone across the room and watching it shatter into a million pieces. This isn’t fucking _fair_.

Later, he’ll be angry that he didn’t think to close the windows. He’ll be angry that he wasn’t more on his guard. He’ll be angry at the tabloid and everyone on the Internet who looked at the photo and at the Internet in general and at the whole twenty-first century. But right now, he’s angry because he has to tell Steve that their perfect fucking moment of _peace_ has been ruined. Wrecked.

“Steve,” he says quietly, putting his hand on his sleeping friend’s shoulder. “You gotta wake up.”

Steve snuffles, shifts, blinks his eyes open. “Everything okay?” he asks, squinting up at Sam with his perfect blue eyes 

“No,” Sam says. “It isn’t.”

 

 

 

There’s just the tiniest hint of a love bite on Steve’s shoulder, a faint lingering purple tinge that the serum will finish erasing in the next hour or so, and Steve fingers it, a lump in his throat. He wants—oh, god. He wants what he always wants, for the mark to stay, to ache, to remind him of what it felt like to be in someone else’s hands. But he wishes it were gone, too; it’s there, in the picture, and it makes him think of someone standing outside their motel room, long-range camera zoomed in till it’s with them in the room, watching coldly as Steve lays himself out for Sam. As he begs Sam to please, make it hurt, just a little.

Steve’s stomach twists. He pulls his grey T-shirt sleeve down over his shoulder.

“Eat,” Sam orders him, throwing a granola bar at Steve. Steve catches it automatically but then lets it fall limply to the tiny bedside table. He can’t eat, no matter how many times Sam urges him to.

Steve picks up his phone. For the last four hours he’s oscillated between resolving not to look and obsessively Googling himself to see if anything else has popped up. So far it’s just the one photo, but the articles and blog posts and social media comments are piling up. They hate him; they love him; they want to fuck him. He wonders which side is shouting loudest now.

“Come on, Steve, put that down,” Sam says quietly. They’ve locked the door and windows and closed all the curtains up tight; Sam says he’s not taking any more chances. They’ll get out of town when they can, but for now they’re trying to stay out of sight.

Steve’s thumb idles over the phone screen. He knows he’s being childish. People used to threaten him in person for being a _scrawny little queer boy, cocksucker, fucking fairy_ , so what’s new about it, really, now that it’s happening online? It’s hardly the first time people have ogled him, either; he spent two years as a chorus boy, more or less. But, god, him and Sam—something good was happening in this room last night, it really was.

“I’m sorry.” Steve turns to look Sam square in the eye. “I’ve been treating you unfairly all morning. I’ve been shutting you out.”

Something painful crosses Sam’s face for a split second. Then he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Well.”

“Look, we—”

There’s a knock on the door. Both of them bristle. They’ve called the manager, made it absolutely clear that no one was to be directed to their room, Sam invoking Captain America and then threatening to sic Black Widow on him if he disobeyed. Steve can’t imagine how much money the man would have to have been offered to risk Natasha.

“It’s me,” calls a voice from outside. Steve’s head shoots up.

“What the—” he mutters as Sam hurries to look through the peephole.

“It’s Tony Stark,” he says, his voice blank. He frowns at Steve. “Should I…let him in?”

Steve sighs. Tony Stark. Why couldn’t it be Nat? Fury? Bruce? Or Thor, or even _Barton_ , or—anyone but Tony. Yes. He’d have preferred anyone to Tony.

He nods at Sam anyway.

“Sam Wilson. Steve Rogers. Congratulations on your first sex scandal,” Tony says as he steps into the room, removing his sunglasses, taking off his jacket in one smooth motion, and rubbing his hands. He leans against the doorframe and grins. “Quite a milestone in any individual’s life.”

There’s a pregnant silence. Steve shuts his eyes and counts to ten, slowly.

“I don’t even really know you, man,” Sam says, “but I think you’d better get out.”

“No, no, no,” Tony says, waving his hand dismissively. “You need me. Tony Stark, by the way, glad to be officially introduced.” He sticks out a hand and Sam, narrowing his eyes, shakes.

“Listen, Steve,” Tony says, dropping onto the couch and spreading his arms along the top, “it’s really not so bad. As far as sex scandals go, I mean, shit, I’ve had way worse. There’s only two people involved, no prostitutes, no strangers, just the guy you’re—dating, maybe? I’d go with dating—and I mean, sure, the gay thing, but hey, it’s the twenty-first century, and yeah, you bottoming is clearly not something the world was really ready for, but—”

“Tony,” Steve says, clearly, slowly, “get. The hell. Out.”

Tony puts up a hand. “Okay. All right. I’m sorry. Clearly you’ve decided to take it hard. I mean,” he smirks, “you’ve already—no. Right. No jokes. Serious issue. Okay, look.” The grin drops off his face and he looks from Steve to Sam. “All joking aside, I’ve got experience with this. You might disapprove, whatever, that’s fine, but I can help you out, because I know how this is going to go down.”

Steve looks at Tony for a long moment. Tony is infuriating, but Tony is also right. He glances quickly at Sam; Sam looks wary but curious.

“Okay,” Steve says. “Then tell us. How is this going to go down?”

“Depends on what you do now,” Tony says briskly. “Which depends on what you want out of this.”

“We don’t want anything,” Steve retaliates, sharp. “We want this to go away.”

“You want the talk to die down?”

“I want the picture gone.”

Tony’s silent for a minute. “Okay, listen. You can go on record and shame everyone for looking at it; that’ll make the more reputable sources and the nicer fans stop posting it. I can pay some more people off to make them take it off their sites. We can sue the original tabloid for publishing the photo, but that’s iffy, legally, plus it’ll make Captain America less sympathetic, I mean, freedom of speech, etc. But it might work. We can do all that, and the photo will be a little harder to find. But, Steve, it’s—” He shakes his head. “It’s on the Internet. It’s not going away.”

“But…” Steve struggles. “Can’t you—isn’t there _something_ , some original copy, not a negative, I know that’s not how it works anymore, but a file, or—”

Tony’s shaking his head, and so is Sam. Steve can tell Tony’s biting back an old man joke; it softens him a little that he doesn’t let it out.

“He’s right, Steve,” says Sam, voice apologetic. “We can’t get rid of it.”

“But we can minimize the damage,” Tony adds. “We can make this die down as quickly as possible, if that’s what you want.”

Steve puts his head in his hands. Everything is just—he’s just—he _can’t._ It’s hard to even look at Sam. “How—would we do that?”

“You’d do nothing,” Tony says matter-of-factly. “Lay low. Don’t talk to the media. Don’t talk to anyone. Let it play out. It’s not going to go away, but at some point people will move on to the next big scandal. You just have to wait it out.”

Steve turns abruptly away from Tony, from Sam. Every muscle in his body is screaming, _Move! Do something!_ Steve’s impulse is, has always been: _Fight_.

“Hey,” Sam says quietly, coming up behind him and putting a hand on his shoulder. “We can do whatever you want, Steve. Whatever you need.”

Steve struggles to breathe evenly, and to not pull away. He puts his hands flat against the wall and rests his forehead there too, closing his eyes.

“What _do_ you want?” Tony’s voice cuts through Steve’s attempts to stay calm. “I mean, you want the photo gone, sure, okay, you’re upset. Why, though? Why are you upset?”

Steve turns to face Tony. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. Not kidding.”

“ _Tony—_ ”

“Are you ashamed of Mr. Wilson here?” Tony asks. Shocked, Steve looks at Sam, his face flushing red.

“ _No_. Of course I—”

“Are you ashamed of being gay?”

“I’m bisexual. And no,” Steve says through gritted teeth.

“Are you angry that your privacy was violated? Angry that now Captain America isn’t so family friendly? Upset that the twenty-first century is so vulgar? That now the whole world knows exactly what you like to do in bed? That—”

Steve lunges at Tony, no plan in his mind, just red _rage_ , and only Sam stepping swiftly between them stops him in his tracks.

“I only ask,” Tony says calmly, from behind Sam, “because the more I know what it is you’re upset about, the better I know how to fix it.”

“Steve,” Sam says again, “we’ll do whatever you want.”

Suddenly, Steve is exhausted. “Nothing,” he says, defeated. “He’s right. We’ll do nothing.”

Sam nods, a short decisive movement. “Fine.”

Tony stands and gathers his things. At the door, he pauses. “Listen,” he says, and he actually sounds like he’s being careful, like he’s trying not to make Steve mad again. “If you need anything else—advice, money, whatever—you can always ask. You can talk to Pepper if you want, usually she’s better at not enraging people.”

Steve can’t quite bring himself to nod. But Sam sticks out his hand. “Thanks, man. I appreciate that.” Tony turns to go, but then Sam clears his throat. 

“Um,” he says, “speaking of. Any advice on how to get out of this motel room?”

 

 

 

Tony helicopters them to New York and sets them up in an ultra-secure suite in Stark Tower, because of course he does. Sam is frankly stunned that Steve accepts Tony’s plan, but Steve is unnaturally quiet, like all the fight has been drained out of him. Sam doesn’t like it; it makes him worried.

Over the next few days they spend a lot of time doing nothing in silence. Sam tries to engage Steve in conversation, but it’s like talking to a brick wall. He also tries to stay off the Internet, but he’s fielding Q&A’s from about twelve different relatives and friends via text so he’s gotten a lot of news from them anyway. There’s a bunch of memes; Twitter’s exploding. Major papers have picked up the story now, though they’re pretending they’re merely reporting on the controversy rather than on the photo itself. Sam has to shut down his phone after reading the comments on the _New York Times_ article; he’d thought that there, at least, there’d be some nuanced discussion, but apparently plenty of homophobic racist assholes read the _Times_ too. They write in polysyllables and complicated turns of phrase, but their feelings are crystal clear.

Sam tries to get in touch with Natasha, because he thinks Steve might open up to her, but she’s away on some super secret mission (for whom, he’s not quite sure); and of course their search for the Winter Soldier has been suspended indefinitely. He tries not to wonder if Bucky has seen the photo, and if so, what the hell his reaction might be. That’s a worry he doesn’t need right now.

He’s afraid to push Steve too hard. He wants to stroke the man’s hair, or bring him tea, or at least go a few rounds with him on the mat Tony’s had set up for them, but Steve mostly spends his time sleeping or drawing and Sam doesn’t know, he just doesn’t know what’s going on in Steve’s head. And Sam Wilson is a brave man, but Steve’s head is a scarier place than a field of combat.

He thinks of the afternoon before the photo, Steve stretched out below him, warm, breathless, open, and something aches, deep in his chest.

(At one point, Sam’s niece sends him a drawing of him and Steve that someone’s posted on Tumblr, a remarkably beautiful sketch of the two of them holding hands, and underneath a comment from the artist reading “I told my mom I was gay yesterday because these two gave me the courage. she says if superheroes can be gay then it must be all right.” And Sam doesn’t tear up, he swears he doesn’t, only of course he does, really.)

Three days after the incident, Pepper Potts arrives at their suite. They haven’t seen anyone since Tony dropped them off, and Sam is surprised how relieved he is to talk to another human being.

“Tony’s dealing with some Stark Industries business in Hong Kong right now,” Ms. Potts says, “but he sent me to check in with you. May I come in?”

“Of course, please,” Sam says. He’s conscious of the fact that she is the actual full-blown CEO of Stark Industries, and she is in no way obligated to be here holding their hands through this. He’s not sure if her presence is down to Tony, or Ms. Potts herself, or some combination of the two, but he’s definitely grateful.

“Hey, Steve,” she says, directing her comment toward the sofa, where Steve has been sprawled for the last two hours, staring idly out the window. He nods in response but doesn’t say anything. Sam frowns, unease rippling through his stomach for the tenth time that day; Steve is nothing if not a gentleman.

“Thank you for coming, Ms. Potts,” Sam says, to make up for it.

“Oh, Pepper, please,” she says, waving a hand in a dismissive gesture uncannily reminiscent of Tony, and scrolls down her tablet, tapping it a few times until a holographic screen pops up in front of them. Sam starts, but Steve only blinks, slowly, and looks away.

“How much of this do you want?” Pepper asks, carefully not glancing in the direction of the sofa. “I can give you the rundown of public sentiment, cover the major trends online and off, go over the conclusions Tony’s social media analysts drew up. Or I can just boil down their advice. Whatever you guys want.”

Sam wants—and he hadn’t realized this till now—he wants all of it, badly. He doesn’t exactly want to see it all himself, every post and comment and article, but the general overview, yes, hell yes, he’s—he’s still mad, but he’s also really, really curious. And itching to _do_ something.

“Steve?” he asks anyway.

Steve shrugs.

“Just, ah—just a quick overview, I think,” Sam says, biting back disappointment. “Not too much detail.”

Pepper looks at him shrewdly, but nods. “All right. Overall, general opinion’s about fifty-fifty, positive and negative. You’d be higher on the positive side, but a lot of people who’d normally be with you can’t quite handle the explicitness of the photo. Major news outlets are more skewed in your favor, Fox News being the obvious exception, although no one’s really doing more than gossiping. The Internet’s polarized, no surprises there, lots of vitriol, lots of support. Lots of, um. Interest.” She takes a breath. “The bad news is that this is not dying down. And it shows no signs of doing so anytime soon.”

Sam’s heart is pounding, somehow, for some reason. His eyes flick to Steve. “Why not?”

Pepper shrugs. “Well, it’s hard to say. But the analysts say that it might be because the public is waiting for a response. People are really clamoring for you two to make a statement. They want to know, well. Whose side you’re on.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’m sorry?”

Pepper doesn’t quite look straight at him, but her voice is steady. “Some people are saying that you—well, mostly Steve, I’m afraid—haven’t released a statement because you’re ashamed. 1940s internalized homophobia, some people say, or—1940s values. Depending on their own feelings about the situation.”

There’s a crack, and Sam and Pepper’s heads swivel in Steve’s direction. His fist is clenched, and the armrest of the sofa is crushed, wood sticking through torn fabric.

“Sorry,” Steve mutters.

Sam’s whole body strains toward Steve, wanting to—to go to him, to just fucking _hold_ the man. But there’s something bright and hard in Steve’s eyes and it’s like months ago, back when he and Sam were just starting off looking for Bucky and sometimes Steve would forget to flirt and smile and he’d just…go somewhere else, somewhere Sam couldn’t follow.

“What, um.” Sam swallows. “Ms. Potts—Pepper—when, uh, when Tony has been in these sorts of—situations, I don’t know if you were handling things then, but, uh, what was his response, generally?”

Pepper’s mouth twists, maybe into a smile, maybe a grimace. “Oh, well. Tony’s case is very different. Everyone expects—expected—bad behavior from Tony. And half the time I think he planned his sex scandals on purpose, as publicity. He’d make some inane comment when the photos surfaced, rile up the board of Stark Industries, get the public outwardly outraged but secretly wanting more, and Stark technology sales would rise.” She shrugged. “It was infuriating, frankly, but nothing like this. Tony wanted something out of it. And even when it wasn’t his plan, he turned it to his advantage.”

Sam nods. He can understand why Steve has such a contentious relationship with Tony, even if he can’t help but feel grateful to Stark for looking after them right now.

“Sam,” Pepper says softly, “you know you could do that too.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Steve tense up.

“What do you mean?” he asks, cautious. “Neither of us are looking for publicity—”

“No,” Pepper says. “No, I know. But—and this is coming from me, not Tony—you could turn this into something else. Into—” She sighs. “Right now, every LGBT organization in the country is spinning in circles over you two. They can’t approach you, because so far all they have is an explicit photo of you that doesn’t exactly fit with, well, their standard PR approach. You’re not quite— _clean_ enough for them. Not that that’s your fault, of course. But, and this is a big but, they _want you_. Badly. Captain America as a spokesperson for gay rights, that would be a huge win. And Falcon, too, they’d hardly turn up their noses at. But they can’t approach you right now, because they don’t know where you stand. If you gave a press release, saying that the way you were outed was unfortunate, and that what you do in the bedroom should be private, but you’re proud of who you are, etc., etc., you could—you could be, well. You could be the face of LGBT rights in America.”

Sam stares at her.

“I’m not advising you one way or another, and I’m certainly not pressuring you,” Pepper says, her cheeks just a little pink. “I just want to make sure you understand—you’ve got a lot of control over how this plays out, if your goal isn’t just to make it go away.”

Sam thinks of that drawing that his niece sent him, of the kid and their mom who thought highly enough of him and Steve that they could actually impact their thoughts, their opinions. Sam feels that old _need_ creeping through him, the one that made him take the job at the V.A., the need to reach out, to help people who are going through the same kind of shit he’s been through. It tugs at him; it’s almost physical.

But:

“I don’t want to be a mascot,” Steve says quietly, from the couch. “Not again.”

And Sam can’t argue with that.

“Thanks, Pepper,” he says, trying to fight the sinking feeling in his stomach. “I think we’re going to wait it out a little longer.”

She nods. Then, after a second, she pulls him into a hug.

“Hang in there,” she whispers. “Sometimes it’s hard to reach them, but they come back eventually.”

Sam gives her a squeeze, then lets her go. 

She leaves the room, and Sam looks over at Steve. Steve looks back, but he doesn’t talk.

 

 

 

Two more days, and Sam can’t take it.

He’s ready to get back _outside_ , for one thing, ready to just get it over with and face the world again. He’s itching to get out there, to stop hiding. But he _can’t_ , because the person he loves the fucking most in this whole entire world is haunting Stark Tower, moving in miserable silence from room to room.

“Steve,” Sam says, standing in the doorway of the living room, “I need to talk about this.”

Steve looks up, his eyes dull. He blinks, like he’s not sure what Sam just said.

“I don’t want to push you,” Sam says, “because I know this has hit you really hard. But I’m—I’m sort of losing my mind here, man.”

Steve stares at him for a long moment, then buries his face in his hands.

“Oh, shit,” he says, his voice muffled. “Sam. Shit. I’m so sorry.” He looks up, his forehead creased unhappily. “I’ve been so selfish. I—of course there’s things you need, I—” He swallows.

Sam feels a rush of warmth; it’s good just to see Steve really look at him again. “It’s okay. I just—”

Steve’s shaking his head. “It’s not. I know it’s not. I just—I—I know it’s my fault, and I’ve been so stuck in—”

“Whoa, back the hell up. What do you mean it’s your fault?”

Steve looks at him unhappily. “Captain America. I mean. That’s why that photographer was there in the first place. Because of who I am.”

Sam gives him a long look. “Are you saying Falcon’s not a big enough deal for the tabloids?”

Steve flushes deeper. “I—Sam, I,” and then, seeing Sam’s wry smile, almost, _almost_ laughs. “Asshole.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Sam crosses his arms. “But seriously, Steve. You can’t possibly blame yourself.”

Steve looks at his knees. “You can leave, though, if you want. I—I thought you would, sooner than this.”

For a second Sam doesn’t know whether to be hurt or furious. But then he sees Steve’s face and before he knows it he’s on the sofa next to him.

“I don’t want to leave.”

Steve looks up at him. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. Steve, I—oh, God.” Sam takes a deep breath. “I love you, Steve. But I, um—yeah, ha,” he says, because Steve’s bright red, startled, wide-eyed, “yeah, I really do. But I—this thing. Of course I’m mad about it, but mostly, we, you know, we had a good thing going. Finally, it felt like. And now I don’t know where we stand, like, not at all, and I need you to tell me.”

Steve’s a little damp around the eyes. Sam wants to just reach out and touch him, but.

“I.” Steve swallows. “I…”

Sam doesn’t want to lose him, Christ, he really doesn’t. “So, um,” he says, “I know you got mad when Stark asked this, and that’s fair, but, well—why? Why is this—of course it’s shitty, I mean, I’m pissed, I’m—embarrassed, a little, yeah, I am, but—you—this is. More than that, I think, for you. Isn’t it?”

Steve nods, after a second. Just a tiny movement, up and down.

Sam puts a hand on his knee. Steve takes in a long, shuddering breath.

“Have you seen photos of me, from before?” Steve asks eventually, his voice soft.

Sam blinks. “Before the time jump? Or you mean before the serum?”

Steve nods. “The second one.”

“Well, sure. There were a couple grainy ones at the Smithsonian exhibit.” 

Steve’s quiet for a minute. Sam waits, not sure where this is going, but ready to listen; Steve doesn’t talk about Back Then much, not even now he knows Bucky is alive. Especially not now.

“I was ninety pounds soaking wet,” Steve says, “and I was sick all the time. Chronic asthma; I got pneumonia two or three times a year. I couldn’t hold down a steady job. I was underweight, sickly, really. Got pushed around. A lot.” He takes a breath. “The serum. I’m not—I’m grateful for it. I got to fight. I got to _live_ , I mean, I’m not sure how long I’d have made it, honestly, otherwise. But this isn’t—it’s not _my body._ ”

He spreads his arms, and looks down at himself, and suddenly Sam recognizes it—the strange way Steve catches himself in the mirror sometimes, like he’s startled by his own reflection.

“This body,” Steve says, and he’s not quite meeting Sam’s eyes, “it’s like a costume. Like Tony’s suit, but—I can’t take it off. And it’s never belonged to me before. It was the U.S. government’s. A—a mascot, at first. And then a weapon. Even when I woke up, after the ice, it belonged to S.H.I.E.L.D. And then S.H.I.E.L.D. fell apart, and that was terrible, but part of me was grateful, because…because…my body was…mine, again. This body, I thought maybe—maybe it could be Steve Rogers, finally. That I could learn how to let that happen.”

Sam’s taking in every word, feeling that his whole understanding of Steve, his whole worldview, is shifting.

Steve swallows. “And, um. Part of what—what’s always helped, what’s always made me feel less—less like Captain America, like I had to be in control all the time, and _strong_ , and, well, um, wholesome? It was,” his eyes flick to Sam’s and away again, “getting, you know, pushed around. Held down, hurt, even. Not against my—I mean, like you and I, um—before. It—it makes me feel _small_ again.”

Sam isn’t—he’d known it had taken a lot, for Steve to ask him to do those things, but he hadn’t known—he hadn’t known _this_. Steve is so private, holds things so close to the chest, and he’d trusted Sam. Opened up to him. And then—

“And now everyone knows,” Sam realizes. “It’s—public information, now. Oh, fuck, that _fucking photographer—_ ”

“It’s not just public information,” Steve says, his hands rubbing at his knees, at the back of his neck, “it’s—now people, they, um—it’s like they think they _own_ me, I mean, not just the ones who, um, like it, but the people who think it’s a, a _statement_ , that what I do with my body belongs to them, that it _means_ something—something—”

Sam grabs Steve’s hand and holds it tight.

“And the thing is,” Steve says, so softly Sam almost can’t hear, “this is—if there was any time I needed to let go of my body, of my control over it, it’s now. But…”

Sam puts his hand around the back of Steve’s neck, holding on firmly. “But?”

“I don’t know if I can,” Steve admits. “I think it might have been—I think it might have been ruined, Sam.”

Sam shuts his eyes, hard, briefly. “Don’t let them do that, Steve.”

Steve looks at him, with his big blue eyes.

“They’ve taken so much away from you. Don’t let them take this.”

“I don’t know if—” Steve says helplessly, as Sam presses his lips against Steve’s.

“Let me try,” Sam breathes. After a moment, Steve nods.

Sam runs his hands down Steve’s chest, along his arms, his legs. Christ, he’s missed this man. “Just…hold still for me,” he says. “Can you do that?”

Steve nods again.

Sam takes Steve’s wrists and places them on the sofa, on either side of Steve’s legs. Steve leaves them there obediently as Sam leans and pushes Steve back against the couch.

“You’re mine, okay?” Sam breathes. “Not theirs. Mine.” He straddles Steve, fast, and pushes his mouth hard against Steve’s. Steve inhales, startled, and opens up. Sam runs his hand through Steve’s thick hair and tightens his grip. Steve gasps.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Yes. Sam…”

Sam waits. 

“ _Please_ ,” Steve breathes, and that’s all Sam needs to hear.

 

 

 

Pepper comes in again the next day, because now there’s a hashtag.

“I’ve seen it,” Steve tells her quietly. He’s still not _right_ , not really, but he woke up with Sam wrapped around him and his head clearer than it’s been in days.

“What’s this hashtag?” Sam asks. He’s just come out of the shower, damp and clean in a fresh T-shirt and sweatpants, toweling off his head. Steve feels warm and sweet just looking at him.

“It’s #BringBackClassicCap,” Pepper says.

Sam frowns. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Steve says, “that they want to believe that once upon a time, there were no gay people in America.”

Sam blinks. Pepper taps her tablet, and the tweets are projected into the air.

_“1940s men knew what mattered: faith, family values, fighting for justice. #BringBackClassicCap”_

_“Remember when u stood for something? Don’t forget old fashioned values 2day. #BringBackClassicCap”_

_“This proves how far we’ve gone off track. #MakeAmericaGreatAgain #BringBackClassicCap”_

_“Still no response from Cap. Maybe he is ashamed of himself. Good. #BringBackClassicCap”_

Steve’s seen them before. He watches Sam breathe, in and out.

“This is…”

“Oh, yes,” Pepper says, “it is.”

“I’ve been called a queer and worse since I was ‘Classic Cap,’ and before,” Steve says quietly.

Sam nods. He pauses, then nods again. “You know that this isn’t just about the gay thing, right?” 

Steve looks at him, then at Pepper, then back at Sam.

“Oh,” he says. “You mean—because you’re—because—”

“Because I’m black.” 

Steve swallows. “That’s—even worse. That makes it so much worse.”

“Yep.”

Steve rubs a hand over his face. “Sam,” he says, “if I weren’t a concern for you, would you make a public statement?” 

Sam shifts, looking uncomfortable. “But you _are_ a concern, Steve.” 

“I know. But if I weren’t.”

Sam pauses, then nods. “Yeah. I would.” 

Something frightening roils up in Steve’s belly, but he pushes it down. “Okay, then.” He takes a deep breath. “Pepper, will you teach me how to make a PowerPoint?”

 

 

 

Steve doesn’t use a PowerPoint, but he does have Pepper make a slideshow for him to show at the press release. Sam knows he’s nervous. They both are. Way too many reporters have turned up, and since Tony—via videochat from Hong Kong—has advised them to go big and patriotic, they’re having the press conference in Battery Park, with the Statue of Liberty in the background. They’re even wearing their Captain America and Falcon uniforms—well, minus Sam’s wings. It had taken some convincing; Steve wanted to wear civvies, and Sam had almost agreed, but then he’d realized that, no, it was important to him that he was Falcon today, important that no one was allowed to forget that he, that they, were defenders, protectors, of the country everyone claimed they cared so much about.

Next to Sam, waiting just out of sight of the crowd, Steve glances back at the big screen Pepper has had set up for them and fiddles with the remote she personally showed him how to use. Sam looks at Steve, catching his nervous eyes. 

“Okay?” he asks quietly. 

Steve nods, then stops. After a moment, he shakes his head.

“Me neither,” Sam admits. “But—I’m glad we’re here. I’m glad we’re doing this, Steve. Thank you.”

Steve slips his hand into Sam’s and squeezes. Startled, Sam looks up into Steve’s face—his blindingly blue eyes, his shock of yellow hair, his all-American cheekbones—and for a second he can see the frightened, stubborn, impossible kid from Brooklyn flashing up like a ghost.

“I love you too,” Steve says.

“Come on, you two, it’s time,” says Pepper, hurrying towards them, a Bluetooth device in her ear, and as she herds them towards the podiums, Sam, a smile spreading like sunshine across his face, glimpses Steve’s cheeks turning faintly pink and his long lashes dipping shyly downwards. 

But then, oh, god, there are hundreds of people waiting for them, a dozen mikes pointed at the podiums, and as they appear there’s a swell of noise and a blinding flash of cameras. Sam feels his stomach roll over as he and Steve take their places, but it’s a slow roll, and he can also feel the adrenaline building, the kind that takes him through firefights and alien attacks. Something clenches inside him and this, this is where he needs to be. 

“Hello, everyone,” Steve says into the microphone. Sam marvels: all traces of nerves are gone from Steve’s face and body; his voice is steady and rock solid. “Thank you all for being here today. 

“I’m Steve Rogers,” Steve continues. “Or, as most of you know me, Captain America. And you all know Sam Wilson, the Falcon.”

Sam gives the audience a nod. They’ve agreed Steve should speak first; Sam felt a funny twinge of jealousy at that, but he can’t help but think it makes sense. It’s not just that Steve is the one most people know best—it’s that Steve has something very specific he needs to respond to, something only he can say.

“You’re all here, of course, because of the photo. The one that was taken without our consent, the one that depicts a private, intimate moment between me and Sam here.”

There’s a ripple in the crowd, and even through the flashing of the cameras Sam can see some guilty faces. Shamed by Captain America, he thinks with some satisfaction.

“But I want to respond to something else,” Steve says. “Something that’s come out of all this. Something most of you are probably aware of. 

“I’ve seen the hashtag,” he says, and Sam feels, more than hears, the crowd tense. “Bring Back Classic Cap.” Steve enunciates each word clearly, sharply, though his face is calm.

“The thing is, many of you seem to think that living in the twenty-first century has changed me. And, sure, you’re not totally wrong. After all, I only just learned what a hashtag was.” He smiles, and, as if they’ve been given permission, the audience laughs a bit. “But,” Steve says, the smile fading, “I think a lot of you don’t understand what this country’s history looks like. I think you don’t understand who I am, who Captain America is. Who Captain America has always been.”

Steve’s eyes flick to Sam’s, for just a split second, and Sam tries to beam support and love and strength through the air between them. And then Sam clicks the remote.

On the screen behind them, a photo appears: sepia-toned, grainy, but clear enough—a young Steve Rogers, worn clothes hanging loose around an unhealthily skinny frame, thin wrists peeking out from frayed sleeves, the barest hint of a healing shiner below his left eye. Sam hadn’t seen this one before yesterday, and it still makes his chest tighten with what feels like intense love mixed with fear, fear for this scrappy, stubborn, utterly fragile young man. 

“This is me in 1939,” Steve says. “I was underweight. I was sick all the time. I was dirt poor. I got into a lot of fights and lost them all. People pushed me around, and I tried not to let them, but sometimes, you’re just outnumbered. Sometimes, the guys you’re fighting are just bigger than you. Sometimes, most of the time, I couldn’t win. I couldn’t stop my body from getting sick and I couldn’t make it strong enough to hit back as hard as I wanted.”

Steve takes a pause, and Sam holds his breath, knowing what’s coming next. _You can do it_ , he thinks, hard; _you can do this, Steve._

Steve presses the button on the remote. A photo of Bucky Barnes appears on screen.

“This is Bucky Barnes,” Steve says. “This is who I—who Captain America—was in love with in 1939.”

There’s a burst of noise from the crowd: murmurs, gasps, the movement of feet and bodies as everyone turns to each other or leans in closer.

“Bucky didn’t like men, not like that,” Steve says, and Sam might be the only one who hears the sliver of pain in Steve’s voice, “but he was decent about it, always. Never pushed me to be any different than I was. He might not have felt the same, but—this is who I thought about when I closed my eyes at night. This is who I dreamed of kissing.”

The audience is riveted. Sam’s not sure if it’s the good or bad kind of riveted, or just the celebrity gossip kind. He hopes— _oh_ , he thinks, blood suddenly racing, he hopes for too much. 

“This is Captain America in 1942,” Steve continues, pressing the button again, and there’s a photo of him in a skintight red-white-and-blue bodysuit, in the center of a line of showgirls. “If any of you need a reminder, I toured the U.S.A. in tights and sparkles.” The crowd giggles a little, some of the tension fizzling away in the laughter. Steve smiles, but he still looks serious. “My best friends were dancers. They worked a lot harder than me—you should have seen their blisters at the end of the day. My point is, for a couple of years, this is who Captain America was. Not a fighter, not a war hero. A performer for housewives, women factory workers, mothers, children, elderly folks. This was me.”

Then Steve clicks to a photo of Peggy Carter, standing sharp and straight in dress uniform, and Steve’s voice fills with warmth. “This is who Captain America was in love with in 1943. SSR agent Peggy Carter, one of the bravest and smartest people I have ever known. She was my superior. I loved her, but I also respected her. She gave me orders, and I followed them. I wasn’t in control—a woman was. And that was right. That was how it needed to be.”

Steve pauses, then, and Sam feels his pulse speed up. Steve had said, _Will you talk about the race stuff?_ and Sam had said, _Yes. Yes, but I need you to talk about it too._

Steve looks at him, now, and Sam knows he’s worried about getting it wrong. Sam gives him a little nod: _thanks_ , and _go ahead._

“This,” Steve says, clicking the remote, “was Captain America’s regiment. The Howling Commandos. I hope I don’t need to remind you all that the Howling Commandos was an integrated regiment. And I hope I don’t need to remind of you of the name of this man.” He clicks again. “Gabe Jones. 

“Gabe was a private in the U.S. army. A graduate of Howard University. Fluent in French and German, and an expert marksman. Gabe and I weren’t in love, but—he is the man Captain America was sleeping with in 1944.”

This time there’s a positive eruption in the crowd. Reporters lean in; voices surge. Sam feels again that same hope, hope with a sharp bright edge: _I dare you_ , he thinks at the crowd. _I dare you._

“Sometimes, in war,” Steve continues, his voice still even despite the way his fingers are beginning to rub along the edge of the podium, “you’re frightened, and far away from home, and everything is fire and explosions and you just need someone to hold onto. Someone to remind you that you’re human, that you’re alive. That was what Gabe and I did for each other every once in awhile. And I’m not ashamed.”

He looks at Sam, full on, for a good long moment. Sam looks back, heart racing, drawing on all his training to keep himself steady.

“Sam here says that some of the reason you’re upset is that Sam is black.”

More murmurs as the crowd shifts; Sam can feel that sudden, familiar twist in the air as a very specific kind of discomfort washes through the crowd. But Steve carries on: “Sam has shown me some pretty horrible things people have said online. Things about what some of you have called ‘the good old days.’” 

Steve takes a deep breath and looks straight at the audience. “Those days never existed. What you think America used to be, well, half of that’s made up and half of it was terrible. I can’t pretend I know what it was like to be black back then or what it’s like now, so I’m going to let Sam talk about this himself in just a minute. But I can tell you some things about the past. Because I was there. 

“Black folks have always existed. Gay folks, LGBT folks, have always existed. Black gay folks, too. Where there was racism, homophobia, sexism, it was bad, not something we should go back to. And where it continues today—and obviously it does—we should try to stamp it out. 

“And that’s what Captain America is about,” Steve says, straightening. Sam hears it, the voice Steve uses whenever he assumes the role—full, deep, commanding. A hero’s voice. “Classic Cap isn’t what you think he was. Classic Cap is about fighting for freedom, fighting for justice, fighting—”

And then Steve stops. He just—stops. His mouth closes, and he stares out at the crowd, and Sam can see, suddenly, the weary slump in his shoulders. Steve is so, so tired.

Sam reaches out and takes Steve’s hand.

The cameras flash.

“I want to say,” Steve whispers, turning to Sam, “I want—I know it’s your turn to talk, but can I just—can I just…”

Sam knows the microphone is still on, that reporters are catching every word. He doesn’t, to be honest, give even a little bit of a shit. “Say it, Steve,” Sam says quietly. “Say whatever you need to say. I’ll be here.”

Steve squeezes his hand, hard, then nods. He turns to face the crowd, who are waiting with bated breath.

“But Classic Cap isn’t just about fighting,” Steve says. His voice is less full, less deep. More _Steve_. “Captain America—me. I.” He breathes. He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again. “I am—I was—a poor, sick kid who got beaten up all the time. I’m queer. I take orders, when I need to, and I like it. I know I am supposed to be an icon of freedom and justice, but I’ve never fully had the kind of freedom and justice I’m asking you all to fight for. And neither has Sam here. But I can’t speak for him. I can only speak for myself. And, listen, if we—if I—” 

He struggles, teetering on the edge of something, and Sam watches, holding his breath, rooting for the words to come out. 

“If I’d been on top,” Steve says in a rush, “in that photo, things would have been different.”

And this time, there’s no sound from the crowd at all: only sudden, total stillness. 

“I don’t always want strength and power,” Steve says, and his voice is shaking. “Sometimes I want to give it up. And there’s something about that that people just can’t stand. Maybe it’s that I look like the icon of, of straight white American masculinity. Or, um, so I’ve been told.”

(Sam remembers an earnest but drunken conversation with Natasha; he vows to thank her later.) 

“But I’m not,” Steve says. His tone is almost pleading. “I’m not. I’ve been, I _am_ , something else, and I’ve known a lot of people who were and who are something else. So stop. Stop using me for your agenda. I’m not a symbol. I’m Steve Rogers. I ate broth and bread growing up because we didn’t have money, and I got called a fairy and a cocksucker on a weekly basis, and I think women and people of color have it harder than me, and I like being pushed around in bed. And I’m in love with…” he looks at Sam, his face flushed, his voice tight, “I’m in love with…” He takes a deep breath. “I’m in love with Sam Wilson, who is finally going to get to speak for himself.”

Sam has _never fucking loved him more_.

“Thank you, Steve,” he says, and his voice is trembling, too, just a tiny bit. “Thanks for that, um, introduction.” To his surprise, the crowd laughs, a relieved titter pulsing through the audience. Sam crooks half a smile. “Gosh, I don’t know what will get more press, Captain America saying he’s in love or Captain America saying ‘cocksucker’ on national news.”

There’s a much bigger laugh this time, and Steve’s eyes fly to Sam’s, suddenly abashed. Sam shoots him an unrepentant grin.

“Listen,” Sam begins, “okay, listen,” and, holy _shit_ , he’s full of adrenaline, and—and—is this _joy_ he’s feeling, this rush? He can see some angry faces out there, but somehow, god, somehow he just feels elated. To be here, to get the chance to speak—to get to say the things he’s always wanted to say. And yet: everything he was going to say, everything he’d memorized, it all boils down to one thing. Steve’s for long speeches, for life stories. Sam realizes, now, looking out at all these people, that he’s got one message, and it’s a simple one.

“I’m a black gay ex-military man,” Sam says, “and I’m proud of that. I’m not broken, and neither are you. And if anyone needs help, you can ask me.”

There’s no sound from the crowd. For one terrible moment, Sam thinks the worst.

Then, suddenly, spontaneously, the audience erupts into a burst of applause. Cheers, whistles, shouts. Not from everyone. But from a lot of them.

Steve looks at Sam, startled, maybe even shocked. Sam shrugs, grinning.

“I don’t know, man, I guess I’m a better public speaker than you.”

Steve cuffs him on the shoulder, then, surprising them both, kisses him on the mouth.

“Can we please get out of here now?” he murmurs into Sam’s ear as the crowd whistles and cameras flash. 

“Yes,” Sam says, “we can.”

 

 

 

Nothing’s that easy, of course. Applause at a press conference does not full acceptance and understanding make. Steve gets a lot of pushback; even the major news outlets didn’t really get, or didn’t really like, some of the things he said.

Steve knows that Sam’s happy, though. Or maybe not happy— _on fire_ is a better way to describe him. Burning. Steve sees it in his eyes, that spark, the one Sam gets when he’s talking about veteran’s issues and his work at the VA. Like the world isn’t living up to its potential and Sam is going to do his damndest to fix it.

Steve loves it. Steve recognizes it: he thinks of himself at twenty, beating up bullies. Hell, he thinks of himself facing down the Winter Soldier a handful of months ago, insisting that there’s still good in Bucky, still _Bucky_ in Bucky. He thinks of alien invaders and battles for New York City, HYDRA and battles for Washington, D.C. He thinks of all this, and he feels tired.

He’ll never give up fighting. Of course he won’t. But maybe this particular fight can be someone else’s. Maybe this fight can be Sam’s.

He gets a call from a national LGBT rights organization the afternoon of the press conference. “I’m sorry,” he says when the woman on the phone introduces herself, “I’m just not in a place where I can do that kind of work right now.”

“That’s too bad,” says the woman. “Captain America would be quite the spokesman, Mr. Rogers. But actually, I was calling for Mr. Wilson. Is he in?”

For one weird vertiginous second, Steve is jealous. But then relief and pride swoop through his body, and he shouts for Sam, grinning from ear to ear.

 

 

 

That night, Steve lies under Sam, breathing. His face is pressed sideways into the pillow and his hands are tied above his head. He could break the ties, but he won’t. He’s just inhaling and exhaling as Sam pushes in and out, almost too slowly to bear.

“Please,” Steve pants.

“You can take it,” Sam says steadily, quietly, and doesn’t speed up.

Steve arches up and whines and Sam pushes his head back down. Steve breathes, breathes, tries to breathe, as slowly the image of that photo, of his own head in this exact position, materializes in his brain.

“Okay?” Sam asks, going still.

“Yeah,” Steve says breathlessly, trying to dispel the image, “yeah, it’s just—this is—this is how…"

“Oh,” Sam says, understanding. For a second longer, he doesn’t move. Then he tightens his grip on Steve’s hair.

“Forget it,” he says.

Steve nods. He swallows. Sam starts to thrust again. Steve breathes, breathes.

“I’m ordering you to forget it,” Sam says, his voice tougher now. He speeds up. Steve gasps. Sweat trickles down his back. Sam rides him harder and Steve feels the sharp edges of his mind start to dissolve away. Sam’s fingers clench in his hair, tighter, tighter, and Steve’s eyes water, and he forgets.

He can’t even remember his own name.

“Sam,” Steve gasps, because that—that’s the one word he remembers.


End file.
